


Birthday Suit

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bad Puns, Bespoke Suits, Birthday Presents, M/M, Rimming, Sneaky Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 17:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6059185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Planning a gift can be the best part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Suit

  
Planning gifts for him was difficult enough. A man who can tell at a glance whether my most recent massage lasted fifteen minutes or twenty, can also tell when I’m trying to secret a package in my pocket. For that matter, one that seems perfectly capable of reading my mind just from the slightest twitch of my eyebrows is able to notice when I’m trying to conceal a surprise.  
  
Planning a gift that required intimate and exact knowledge of his physique was a whole other matter.  
  
“Just what exactly are you doing back there?”  
  
Luckily, while he is able to write monologues on one hundred forty types of tobacco ash and catalogues of every known pattern of bicycle tyre, I could write pages upon pages focused on the freckles across his shoulders. The curve of his upper thigh. The slim expanse and jutting bones of his hips.  
  
“Exploring,” I replied, walking my fingertips up the inside of his leg. From his ankle to groin, I kept my fingers an inch apart with each pace until I reached the point highest on his leg.  
  
Holmes accommodated my hand by spreading his thighs and tipping his hips up, practically wriggling his rump from side to side. I silently mouthed “Thirty-four,” before curling my arms under Holmes’ thighs and pressing my face between his firm mounds.  
  
Criminal cases may result in a single minded and intense focus from him, but in his off hours he could be as easily distracted as cat seeing a bit of string. The next morning, I carefully noted the measurement down in my book alongside the sketch of Holmes’ figure.  
  
  
  
“That tickles.”  
  
I finished my fingers circuit around his waist by dipping them into his navel. This had been one of the trickier ones to obtain, as Holmes had been flitting around our rooms for the last two hours, conducting an orchestra with his darting fingers to music only he could hear.  
  
“Apologies, my dear,” I kissed the side of his neck and left him to his amusements. I neatly printed out a twenty-nine in my book, then went downstairs to fix Holmes a sandwich and a plate of biscuits.  
  
  
  
His hips were simple. Slender and sharp, they fit into the palms of my hands. My thumbs able to touch across the cleft of his arse, while my fingertips just reached into the dip of his pelvis. Countless occasions of guiding him about our bed by those hips, I had that image memorised long ago.  
  
By the time I thrust myself to a particularly vocal finish, Holmes was limp and boneless and smiling serenely. I had to lift his long arms and legs, moving them around to tuck him under the covers after wiping him clean while Holmes groaned and sighed.  
  
“I think you bruised my hips with your fingers,” he murmured, nuzzling his face into my chest. “You are always so eager after Wagner.”  
  
With a shaky laugh- I was still feeling the effects of my climax- I pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “That’s because I’m so pleased I made it through the performance alive, that I need to celebrate.” I laughed when a sharp elbow connected with my ribs. “The first time you took me to see The Flying Dutchman, I thought I was going to ripen and rot right there in my seat.”  
  
Holmes gave a prim little sniff. “This from the man who took me to a music hall,”  he huffed out before turning over to snuggle down under the covers.  
  
I fell asleep tracing the line between the smudged bruises I had left on his skin.  
  
  
  
His arms were by far the trickiest. It took several weeks to decide the best plan of action, during which we worked thirteen different cases and I came close to being shot again. Nothing out of the ordinary for us, in truth. When the opportunity finally arrived, it was entirely by chance.  
  
“The fog is thick enough I could hold it in my hand.” Holmes complained, glowering out the window. He was leaning over with his hands planted on the sill, his forehead close to touching the glass. When he breathed, the glass steamed up around his nose until he let out a snarl of disgust and kicked the wall.  
  
“Hush, dear. It will lift soon enough,” I insisted and stepped behind him, drawing him back to lean against my chest.  
  
Holmes sighed and sagged back into my grip. “Thank you for not pointing out what else is thick and can be held in my hand.”  
  
Chuckling, I slid my fingers up Holmes’ sides, being mindful of his ticklish spots around his ribs and under his arms. “I thought it was too easy,” I rose up on my toes a couple of inches so that our shoulders were level. My hips were flush to his rump, and I must confess that watching him bent over against the window had left me a bit thick and full.  
  
Along his arms, I stroked and caressed until I reached his hands, spreading his long limbs out to the sides. I linked our fingers together to see the difference between the length of his arms and my own.  
  
I must have stayed like that for too long, or looked to closely at our hands, because Holmes let me go and turned around. “What _are_ you doing?” he  demanded.  
  
I blinked slowly, trying to feign innocence. Which would have been much easier to do if I wasn’t now completely erect and waving for attention between the folds of my dressing gown. “Why would you think I’m doing anything?”  
  
Lips pursed, Holmes glared down at the intruder. “You’re trying to distract me.” To my relief, his voice was exasperated rather than angry.  
  
“Is it working?”  
  
Holmes clucked his tongue and reached out to tug open the sash. The heavy cloth fell to the floor, followed by Holmes’ knees. “Yes, but only because I’m looking for a distraction.”  
  
  
  
The winter was harsh and bitter that year. Christmas passed with us separated for work, Holmes investigating a paint forgery while I was tending to patients struck down with influenza. We celebrated the new year quietly, and the anniversary of our meeting loudly.  
Holmes slept late on his birthday, and I left him snoring in bed while I took care of the final preparations for his gift.  
  
“I smell sausage and eggs,” Holmes mumbled without opening his eyes when I brought up his breakfast, the tray balanced on top of a box. “Slightly burnt sausage and peppery eggs. You cooked.”  
  
I coaxed him to eat the meal despite his grogginess, and plied him with enough coffee to perk him up before I presented him with the box. I set the gift on his lap, my fingers itching to help him tear off the paper wrapping.  
  
Holmes folded the paper neatly and set it on the floor then traced his fingertip over the deep red stamp on the lid. “Huntsman  & Sons? How in the name of heaven could you afford this?” he breathed out as he opened the box to see the suit that lay in a froth of tissue.  
  
It was dove grey, with pale blue stitching and pearl buttons. Holmes scrambled out of bed to try it on.  
  
The tailor had been furious with my notes and descriptions, charging me close to double for the suit to make up for not being able to do fittings with Holmes. I had felt like a fool standing in that luxurious shop with my arms outstretched while insisting that the sleeves should be an inch longer than my own.  
  
“I sold my watch,” I replied, openly admiring the way the cloth fell on Holmes’ figure. Even without fittings, the suit was perfect. “And one of my text books.” It wasn’t precisely a lie, not telling him that I had walked everywhere the last two months rather than taking cabs and had called in every debt and favour that was owed to me.  
  
It was worth all the stress and exhaustion to see the look of wonder on Holmes’ face when he looked himself over in the full length mirror in the corner of our bedroom.  
  
“Happy birthday, my dear.”


End file.
